Flowers
Her garden was her pleasure and her care;
Morning and evening one could find her there
Working and wondering. Every scent and hue
Filled her with joy, with beauty pierced her through.
For as her flowers opened to the sun
Each seemed a radiant world her soul had won,
This paradise of perfume her own hand
Had made, this glowing tapestry she planned.
From walls that kept marauding winds shut out,
A fountain splashed, a brook wound slow about
Field of spiced-candy-tuft, hedged with trim box,
Dark blue verbenas, larkspur, snow-white phlox,
And beds of heliotrope that in the night
Offered rare incense for the stars’ delight.
Robin and catbird sought her iris pool,
Fluttered and bathed them in its shallow cool,
Then poised one happy moment on the banks
To offer to the stream their lyric thanks.
Edward Bliss Reed.